POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Together we’ll commune, 
As lovers do, when, standing all apart, 
lS T o one o’erhears the whispers of their heart, 
Save the all-silent moon. 
Thy thoughts I can divine, 
Although not uttered in vernacular words, 
Thou me remind’st of songs of forest birds; 
Of venerable wine; 
Of earth’s fresh shrubs and roots; 
Of Summer days, when men their thirsting slake 
In the cool fountain, or the cooler lake, 
While eating wood-grown fruits. 
Thy leaves my memory tell 
Of sights, and scents, and sounds, that come again, 
Like ocean’s murmurs, when the balmy strain 
Is echoed in its shell. 
The meadows in their green, 
Smooth-running waters in the far-off ways, 
The deep-voiced forest where the hermit prays, 
In thy fair face are seen. 
Thy home is in the wild, 
’Mong sylvan shades, near music-haunted springs, 
Where peace dwells all apart from earthly things,’ 
Like some secluded child. 
The beauty of the sky, 
The music of the woods, the love that stirs 
herever Nature charms her worshippers, 
Are all by thee brought nigh. 
E 
